


Coffee Woes

by WinterDreams



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Fluff and Angst, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, everyone is an overdramatic idiot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-19
Updated: 2016-08-19
Packaged: 2018-08-09 16:10:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7808446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WinterDreams/pseuds/WinterDreams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on the Tumblr post that asked for the hellish and #realistic coffee shop aus rather than sanitized versions of retail.<br/>http://gracer222.tumblr.com/post/143464734014/swedishjazz-the-reason-i-dont-like-coffee-shop</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coffee Woes

**Author's Note:**

> Commissioned birthday fic for a friend :)
> 
> Warning for the use of homophobic slurs in one part because customers are assholes.

“Hello?”

“Hey, it’s Enjolras.”

“What did he do this time?”

“No, I mean it’s me.”

“What did _you_ do this time?”

“Hilarious,” Enjolras said into the cellphone, pulling the object away from his ear for a second to glare. “Wait, did you just quote a movie at me?”

“It’s been known to happen,” Combeferre replied, and Enjolras heard the sound of shuffling papers on Combeferre’s end.

Enjolras snorted and pulled his red jacket a little tighter against his body as the wind sent a gust of brisk evening air swirling down the back alley he stood in.

“Courf is rubbing off on you again,” Enjolras told him, as if there was ever a time when the three of them _weren’t_ changing and balancing each other out.

The cold bricks scraped at Enjolras’ back and snagged his hair when he tilted his head back to gaze up at the colours of a dying day painting the canvas of the sky. He could practically see Combeferre rolling his eyes in the brief pause that followed.

“I would like to point out that everyone in our friend group watches movies,” Combeferre said. “Even you watch them when we do group movie nights.”

“That doesn’t mean I quote them when my friends are in dire need of assistance.”

“Objection!” Courfeyrac’s loud shout echoed down the line but Enjolras just shifted so the phone was nestled even tighter between his shoulder and ear. “I know for a fact you have that entire speech from _Braveheart_ memorized, and you quote shit at me all the time.”

“Did you put me on speaker?” Enjolras asked Combeferre instead of replying to Courf’s undignified screeching.

“Is that going to be a problem?”

“Excuse you, I’m your best friend too, Enjolras!”

“I don’t know, Courf,” Enjolras said dryly, letting a smile tug at his lips for the first time all day, “I might be about to profess my undying love for ‘Ferre, and I wouldn’t want an audience for that.”

“You should definitely have an audience for that,” Courfeyrac said, his grin clear in his voice. “For moral support when Ferre rejects you.”

“So much faith.”

“I have faith in your abilities as a revolutionary badass, not in your nonexistent romantic escapades.”

“Are you really going to let him insult me like this?” Enjolras asked Combeferre, who was no doubt starting to regret ever picking up the phone.

“I don’t know if it counts as an insult if it’s true,” Combeferre replied calmly, and Courfeyrac laughed.

“You two are the worst kinds of people.” Someone on the street shouted and a door banged open, but the one a few inches to Enjolras’ left remained firmly closed so he stayed slouched against the wall. “A friend calls you for help and–”

“What exactly _is_ the problem?” Combeferre cut in. “You normally get straight to the point.”

“Unless it’s about Grantaire,” Courfeyrac added. “Then you just ramble around the point and don’t shut up until one of us stops you. Sort of similar to when you’re full of righteous fury, but you usually have your points about social change in bullet form and colour coded.”

Enjolras didn’t say anything.

“Oh my god, is _it_ about Grantaire?”

“It’s Grantaire,” Enjolras confirmed, and he heard the scrape of a chair as if Courfeyrac decided the conversation was too important to have while he wandered the dining room floor of their apartment. Enjolras glanced up and down the alleyway as if simply saying their resident cynic’s name would summon him, but he remained the only person standing the garbage smelling alleyway.

“You know how I asked Javert to put me on evening shifts now that classes are starting up again,” Enjolras continued after taking a deep breath. “And he did. Well turns out Grantaire also works evening shifts. And he’s working every single shift I have.”

A pause only punctuated by breathing.

“Okay,” Combeferre said cautiously, uncertainly, in a way he did a lot around Enjolras when trying to think of a unique way to phrase his next question.

“So what the hell is the problem?” Courfeyrac asked, having no such qualms about delicate phrasing. “I thought you said you _wanted_ to spend more time with him after the Incident.”

“Not at work,” Enjolras hissed, and ran a hand through his uncooperative blond curls. “I can’t focus on being nice and repairing a relationship when some rich soccer mom is screaming at me about her decaf drink.”

Before either of them could respond, the door near Enjolras banged open and the silhouette of his boss appeared in front of the backdrop of the café’s light.

“I need you in there,” Javert said when he spotted Enjolras. “There’s already a crowd and it’s five minutes till you clock in.”

“Right way, Mr. Javert,” Enjolras said politely, and Javert gave him a nod before disappearing back inside.

The ensuing silence possessed a physical weight that dragged Enjolras’ eyes shut.

“Enjolras,” Combeferre began slowly, with all the judgement of a twelve year long friendship contained in that single word, “did you wait until the second before your first shift with Grantaire to tell us this?”

“I thought it would be fine,” Enjolras told him, stubbornly pushing back all the choking panic and disbelief with his words. “I was fine, but then I got here and I started thinking and–”

“You panicked,” Courfeyrac supplied for him when Enjolras stumbled over admitting how inadequately he was handling the situation. When Enjolras stayed quiet, Courfeyrac’s voice went soft and soothing like he could wrap his words around Enjolras as tightly as a hug. “You know lots of people actually become really close when they experience hellish situations together. Just look at me and all my coworkers.”

“You go and get drunk with them,” Enjolras pointed out, even though he did like a lot of the other people Courfeyrac worked with at one of the several Bath and Body Works scattered throughout the city. “I don’t want to get drunk with Grantaire. Besides, he drinks enough for the both of us.”

“See, that is the _opposite_ of what you should be saying about a friend you want to bang. Especially after the Incident.”

“Enjolras,” Combeferre said firmly before Enjolras could start snapping at Courfeyrac. “It will be fine. Just go in there, do your job like you always do, and talk to Grantaire like you do any other time.”

“Except for like you do at our meetings,” Courfeyrac chimed in, and Enjolras could practically see Combeferre suppressing a flinch.

“Yes, please do not get into an argument with him about social justice at work. You guys have normal conversations outside of that so just use that as a model and try to avoid any other misunderstandings.”

“He still won’t call it by name,” Courfeyrac mock whispered.

“That’s because someone in the group has to be a counterpoint to everyone’s dramatics. Now hang-up and go to work, Enjolras.”

Enjolras did as he was told with a barely contained sigh. He slipped the phone into his pocket, took one last deep breath of fresh air, and then headed into the café through the backdoor.

The coffee shop Enjolras had worked at for three months now could only be described as generic. Clusters of couches and squashy brown chairs sat near a gas fireplace with a TV hanging above in one corner, pale wooden tables and black chairs took up most of the spacious middle, and red cushioned booths lined the wall opposite the fireplace. Large glass windows allowed anyone walking by to peer into the warm, crowded space, and catch a glimpse of the display of baked goods and front counter near the back.

The door leading to the alleyway came from the kitchen, so Enjolras needed to maneuver around Javert where he talked with a cook to get to the front counter. He paused in the doorway though, the second his eyes fell upon a familiar form standing at the cappuccino machine.  

It was not that Grantaire and Enjolras were enemies, per se. The fellow university student had been a permanent fixture of their little band of student activists since they all began university four years ago. The group as a whole started going to social outings and developed a borderline codependent friendship only two weeks after the activism came into being. And Enjolras assumed the same rules applied to Grantaire too, wouldn’t have hesitated to call Grantaire his friend a week ago before the Incident despite all the arguing and shouting they did at the actual meetings.

Hell, before the Incident he had almost worked up all the courage he needed to face his feelings and ask Grantaire out on a date.

Now, as the man in question turned toward him and caught sight of him, Enjolras didn’t know what they were supposed to be or at what point he had even gone off the script mapping out all his other friendships. He didn’t know how to repair something he hadn’t even realized was broken, and he certainly didn’t know how to exist in such a small space with someone he had a massive crush on.

“So it’s true,” Grantaire said with a sardonic grin that never failed to put Enjolras on edge. He moved further behind the counter proper despite proximity to Grantaire always making things more heated. “I’ll be spending my evenings working with the mighty Apollo himself.”

“I’ve told you not to call me that,” Enjolras snapped, though it was a demand he hadn’t needed to make for months before the Incident. All plans of being extra nice to Grantaire fled somewhere in the outside alleyway when Grantaire’s grin only grew firmer in response. “And I really cannot deal with it here when I already have to act like any rude behaviour from our customers or my exhaustion isn’t affecting me.”

“Hey,” a customer called before Grantaire could respond. In unison they turned toward a young man with a scrunched up nose and twisted lips. “Your toilet’s clogged as fuck in there.”

He held out the key to the bathroom to them with a scowl and Enjolras took the keys with a barely contained sigh.

“Thanks for telling us,” he intoned while the man glared.

He stalked off toward his table, Enjolras stalked off toward the bathroom, and Grantaire stayed where he was to deal with the next customer.

By the time Enjolras returned to the counter after putting a sign on the stall and spending five minutes viciously rubbing his hands with sanitizer, Grantaire was being overrun with customers. Enjolras stepped in to help without a word about their previous conversation, and for the next few hours there were so many people in the shop demanding drinks and sympathy for their complaints, that neither of them had a chance to say a single word to each other that didn’t relate to work.

Only once closing time crept near and tapped them on their shoulders did they have a chance to breathe, let alone talk. Only once the last customers were starting to trickle out and Enjolras started wiping down the tables, did Grantaire address him with more than a drink order.

“Alright.” Enjolras looked up from the coffee stains and muffin crumbs at Grantaire’s voice. A slight grin still touched the corners of his lips, but the sincerity in his eyes couldn’t be missed. “Even _you_ don’t look all that godly after five hours of customers and smelling like shit and too much coffee.”

“I still smell?” Enjolras asked, words too difficult to get out if he focused on the intangible truce hanging in the looming space between them.

Grantaire’s grin widened.

“Please take a shower the second you get home, Enjolras.”

***

In the summer time, Enjolras worked almost every day of the week. When classes began, he cut down the number of shifts but not by much. He still worked Mondays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays, always setting a little bit of money aside for the inevitable next time someone or several someone’s in their group would need bail money.

Which meant that between working all of these shifts with Grantaire, seeing him on Tuesday nights for their activist group meetings, and sometimes hanging out with him on weekends with the rest of the group, Enjolras was seeing more of Grantaire than he had in the past four years.  

“Isn’t this a good thing?” Courfeyrac asked when Enjolras called him ten minutes before his second shift with Grantaire. The alleyway still smelled strongly of garbage and cat piss, and Enjolras tucked his face into his jacket as much as he could. “You wanted more time around him to get over the Incident _and_ woo him.”

“I didn’t mean every single day,” Enjolras said, examining a rust stain on the wall opposite him. He was beginning to think he would have every brick in the alleyway memorized within a month thanks to his new shared schedule with Grantaire.

“Familiarity breeds affection.”

“The saying is actually familiarity breeds contempt.”

“I know and I think it’s stupid. I’d hate both you and Ferre if it was true.”

Enjolras smiled a little at that and tried to take a deep breath without smelling too much.

“You’re the one who’s always going on about change,” Courfeyrac reminded him. “So change that saying. Change your thing with Grantaire.”

“I didn’t think it needed to change before the Incident,” Enjolras grumbled, ignoring the little pinpricks of hurt the thought triggered. It was harder to ignore the memory of Grantaire’s crumbling face and anger scraping his voice raw.

“Well I mean you guys weren’t da–”

“Yes okay,” Enjolras cut him off loudly, and rubbed his face. “Thank you, Courf. I should go inside now.”

He hung up the phone before he could hear Courfeyrac’s parting comment in full and then headed inside.

The thing about working with Grantaire was, despite Enjolras’ voiced misgivings to his friends, the two didn’t actually have a lot of time to just stand around talking, or get sucked into an argument. Nor did Enjolras have the time to stand around and wallow about how attractive he found Grantaire. When Grantaire arrived for work a couple minutes after Enjolras, Enjolras only had time to give him a nod in greeting with all the customers demanding attention. Just like the first shift, a couple hours went by without time for more than two minutes of talking. The later the night got, the more time Enjolras could give Grantaire.

“A flask?” Enjolras demanded when they were both leaning against the back counter and Grantaire took the item out from his jean pocket. “Really?”

Grantaire raised an eyebrow at him but otherwise remained impassive.

“Enjolras, I just had to waste ten minutes making the same latte twice for a snotty woman because she refused to believe I made her a decaf. Can you blame me?”

The short note of laughter that followed made Enjolras’ grind his teeth against the bitterness the noise held. “Oh wait, I forgot you don’t have human vices.”

“I find imagining punching them works just as well,” Enjolras replied, doing a quick check to make sure no customers were within hearing range. Grantaire blinked at that, and some of his bitterness faded beneath genuine amusement when he next spoke.

“And you keep telling us you don’t have anger issues.”

“I don’t have anger issues,” Enjolras said automatically, and then sighed when Grantaire just stared at him. “Okay. I used to have anger issues. Now I have a passion for justice.”

“You should try that on the police next time we get arrested,” Grantaire said with a grin that eased some of the exhaustion work always brought.

Enjolras snorted and went back to watching the array of customers sitting throughout the shop. He watched Grantaire shift out of the corner of his eye, fingers tapping lightly on the faded denim of his jeans, feet scuffing at the floor, and black curls shifting when he tilted his head.

“You know, you could always make up stories about them too,” Grantaire suggested, and Enjolras turned his body slightly toward him. Grantaire offered him a brief smile that quickly fled under Enjolras’ full attention.

“Jehan suggested it to me,” Grantaire continued, looking away from Enjolras and back out at the tables littered with crumbs. “Just, y’know, if you genuinely wanted a less violent one.”

“You’re the boxer,” Enjolras pointed out, and Grantaire glanced back at him long enough to give him a scathing look.

“It’s not inherently _violent._ I’ve seen you get into brawls before, you’re a lot more vicious than me.”

“Only when they’re assholes,” Enjolras muttered, but raised his voice a second later. “Alright, so why was Miss Decaf in such a snotty mood?”

“They probably messed up her manicure,” Grantaire said, deadpan voice unable to prevent Enjolras from noticing the suppressed laughter in the creases of his paint-stained face. “The nail polish on her pinky finger wasn’t as perfect as the others.”

Enjolras snorted and then covered his mouth when a customer looked over at them.

“Probably ran out of gas for her red Mercedes on the way here.”

“Spilled McDonalds in her red Mercedes,” Grantaire added.

“Why would she be eating McDonalds?”

“Enjolras, she gets her lattes from our shop, we’re not exactly a classy place. Today was probably her treat day but she didn’t want anyone to know, so she had to covertly eat her Big Mac in her car and then she spilled all over the leather cushions.”

“So what you’re saying is she was a bitch to you because she was filled with shame?”

Grantaire snapped his fingers at Enjolras.

“Exactly. Never underestimate the power of shame and all other negative sentiments on the never-ending spectrum of degenerate human emotions to motivate everyone within this small oasis of coffee and customer service hell.”

Enjolras opened his mouth to comment, though whether on the actual words spewing from Grantaire’s mouth or the dark notes of something akin to self-deprecation seeping into his cheerful tone, he didn’t know.

“Hey, can one of you come deal with this!” A customer’s shout cut off Enjolras’ reply and they both glanced to the woman staring at their ceiling in disgust. “There’s chocolate cake _dripping_ from your ceiling!”

“Of course there is,” Grantaire said, and all attempts at conversation were dismissed in favour of dealing with the latest crisis.

***

A week into their shared shifts, Enjolras had learned that Grantaire filled the space behind the counter with endless humming. Only half of the time did the soft notes match the music blaring over their shop’s speakers; the other half he spent bobbing his head slightly to the notes in his mind with as much careless defiance as he gave Enjolras during their meetings.

Two days after that, they turned the habit into a guessing game for Enjolras. Grantaire only suffered a moment of shock when Enjolras first made the suggestion before launching into a rendition of one of the popular pop songs Courfeyrac always blasted in the morning.

“Really?” Enjolras demanded when he overheard Grantaire humming to a _Shrek_ song halfway through their third Monday shift together. The man looked up from the coffee leisurely pouring into a cup while Enjolras leaned against the counter by his side. “Was Bahorel and Courf screaming the entire soundtrack last night while stuck in a cell not enough for you?”

“It got stuck in my head,” Grantaire said with a slight smile. “Besides, it’s good. Not as good as the opening for the second one mind you–”

“I wouldn’t know,” Enjolras said, sparing a glance for the empty front entrance. “I only ever saw the first one.”

“Just when I think I couldn’t be more disappointed in your unclassical childhood upbringing,” Grantaire said with a shake of his head, but the fondness in his voice was as easy to spot as the sandy bottom of still water.

“We could watch them,” Enjolras suggested as casually as he could manage. “Fill in all those gaps in my childhood education you’re always talking about.”

Grantaire blinked and the coffee came to a spluttering stop.

“Yeah? I’ll send a text to everyone after our shift then.” He reached past Enjolras to grab a lid and screwed it onto the drink with another grin. “Courf is gonna be ecstatic you agreed to this.”

Enjolras managed a smile, unable to tell Grantaire he had meant just the two of them with his heart now pounding somewhere in his throat. Instead he contemplated texting Courf about the whole thing, who would no doubt be eager to make it so only Grantaire and Enjolras were available for said movie night. 

“I think Ferre secretly loves them, too,” Enjolras said when Grantaire looked at him expectantly. “And we kinda owe him for the jail thing this weekend.”

“Jail thing?”

Both of them startled at the gasped words and looked up at three wide eyed girls standing on the other side of the tall counter. They couldn’t have been out of high school yet, one of the girls so short her chin was level with the ledge while Grantaire stood two heads taller than the marble counter.

“Oh, you mean you didn’t know about the previous owner?” Grantaire asked, lowering his voice and adopting a conspiratorial tone with practiced ease. Enjolras just rolled his eyes and turned away when the shop’s bell screeched. He headed to the cash register as Grantaire lost himself further in the threads of wildly untrue gossip he weaved for the attentive girls.

“Hello, what can I get for you tonight?” Enjolras greeted the two older men who wandered up to the front.

The first man looked away from the displayed goods at Enjolras’ voice and a slow smile that instantly made Enjolras stiffen spread across the man’s face.

“Grilled cheese, strawberry smoothie, and your number, beautiful,” the man said with a wink.

 _You are at least fifteen years older than me_ , Enjolras nearly snapped. He stabbed the order into the cash instead and then looked back up at the man’s partner who was staring at Enjolras with just as much carnal greed in his eyes.

“Anything for you?” Enjolras asked, all hints at politeness deigned necessary for customers gone.

“Onion soup, cappuccino, and the secret to your gorgeous hair,” the other man replied, and Enjolras reminded himself that Javert did not approve of Enjolras verbally or physically fighting customers over one or two uncomfortable comments.

Instead, he entered the order into the cash register while curls of his aforementioned blond hair fell into his scowling face. He once again heard his mother’s voice telling him to get rid of the atrocious length if it caused him so many problems, but just as he had thrown a tantrum as a child when she tried to cut it, the man’s comments only made him more spitefully determined to keep the unruly mass untouched.

“We’ll bring your food out to you when it’s ready,” Enjolras told them after they paid and he gave them a number. He just stared at them with a clenched jaw when they made a comment about looking forward to it and then headed off to their table by the fireplace.

For ten seconds Enjolras focused on simply exhaling and inhaling as if that alone could suppress the bubbling fury that had built a nest in his chest ever since he was eight years old. Then he gave the orders to the kitchen and began working on the men’s drinks, spitting in both of them for good measure. When he turned around with both of them in his hands, he nearly crashed right into Grantaire.

“I got it,” Grantaire told him before Enjolras could snap at him. Without another word, he whisked the drinks right out of Enjolras’ hands and then walked straight toward the men’s table.

For a moment, Enjolras simply watched. Watched as the men leaned back in their cushioned chairs with legs splayed across as much space as possible. Watched as they gave Grantaire a quick once over and then dismissed him with a smirk and laughing words Enjolras couldn’t hear. Watched Grantaire simply give them a grin and quip before placing their drinks down hard enough that liquid sloshed onto the cappuccino’s saucer.

Then the three girls from earlier were calling for Enjolras’ attention at the cash register and he couldn’t watch Grantaire continue to stick his neck out for Enjolras in a way he wouldn’t have expected after the Incident. He did, however, see when Grantaire grabbed the men’s plates from the kitchen, purposefully placing a bottle of hot sauce on the counter so Enjolras could see before he delivered the men’s meals to them.

Grantaire marked his return with a tap to Enjolras’ shoulder where he stood making a latte.

“So those assholes wanted me to give you their numbers,” Grantaire said with a grin, waving the two slips of paper in the air dramatically. “But I thought you might want to shove them in the blender after our shift.”

“That,” Enjolras said after a second’s pause, forcing the words through a suddenly too tight chest and the ever growing desire to kiss Grantaire, “might be one of the best ideas you’ve ever had.”

***

One of the first things Enjolras learned after meeting Grantaire in first year was the location of his shitty apartment and his propensity to be late to _everything_. Even though he lived a five minute walk away from the coffee shop, he still showed up ten minutes late half the time, crumpled clothes beneath his work apron and the heavy scent of sleep lingering on his skin.

Twenty minutes late to work, however, was unusual and potentially disastrous in terms of keeping one’s shift.

Enjolras tapped his fingers gently on the cash register as he watched the door to the coffee shop. The doorway remained empty, and glances at the sidewalk outside showed the dreary pavement to be absent of Grantaire and the fraying, green beanie cap he always shoved over his mass of black hair.

Enjolras turned his frown to the rest of the shop. A gaggle of teenage girls and one hipster boy were sprawled across the chairs and couches near the fireplace. One woman sat at a corner booth furiously typing away at her Mac and ignoring the half-eaten muffin by her elbow. Two men sat by the windows, gesturing wildly with their stories and taking the occasional sip of coffee.

When none of them looked Enjolras’ way and no new customers entered, Enjolras quickly ducked inside the kitchen. The bored cook didn’t even look at him as he grabbed his cellphone from his backpack and then returned to the doorway of the kitchen so he could stand sentinel over the main room.

The cellphone rang, Enjolras hovered, and all the customers continued to pass their evening oblivious to any employee struggles occurring just on their peripheral.

“Huh?” Grantaire finally answered when the phone stopped ringing. Enjolras straightened at the successful connection and spared a look for the doorway right beside the kitchen leading to Javert’s office.

“Grantaire, it’s Enjolras,” Enjolras said quickly. “Where are you?”

“Enjolras, why’re you…” The words mushed together in a recognizable slur, sounding as if Grantaire needed to push through oceans of tangled seaweed to string together the confused syllables.

 _Drunk_ , a part of Enjolras’ brain, always the quickest to respond and judge, thought. His grip tightened around his cellphone even as another part of him, molded and softened into gentle understanding after four years of observations and revelations, recognized the barest hints of difference.

“It’s Wednesday, five-twenty pm, twenty minutes after our work shift starts,” Enjolras told him. A creak sounded on the other end of the line, followed by a dull clatter.

“Okay,” Grantaire replied, elongating the vowels into a stark question mark. A dullness Enjolras had heard only a few times pervaded his voice, like a picture drawn only in the faintest of greys and whites.

“Grantaire, you have work. Right now.”

Another few seconds passed and all Enjolras heard on the other end was Grantaire’s audible breathing.

“Shit.” The smallest notes of panic entered Grantaire’s voice at that, battling with a bleakness Grantaire normally hid so well with derailing comments, sloppy grins, and burning booze. “Shit okay that’s–I just wasn’t paying attention but–”

“Enjolras?” Enjolras nearly jumped at Javert’s stern voice. He whirled to find their manager standing with a frown on his lined face, arms crossed over his massive barrel chest. “What are you doing?”

He gave the room an once-over and his frown deepened. “Where’s Grantaire?”

Grantaire inhaled slowly on the line, and Enjolras quickly dropped the phone to his side to give Javert his full attention.

“That’s what I was just figuring out, sir,” Enjolras said, tacking on the respectful ending hastily, “Grantaire called me to give a heads-up about being late when he couldn’t get through to you. There was an apartment emergency you see, he’s really sorry, but his toilet started overflowing only ten minutes before the shift started. He was going to just throw some paper towel down and deal with it after, but his roommate took a massive dump right before so there’s feces and liquid everywhere, and the _smell_. He had to call the plumber before he left but his roommate isn’t in so he was waiting and trying not to gag and the time–”

“Alright, I understand,” Javert cut him off, frown now replaced with a vague look of disgust. “Just tell him to finish dealing with that as soon as he can and come over after. And make sure he takes a shower first.”

“Of course,” Enjolras said, and put the phone back to his ear the second Javert disappeared.

“Has anyone ever told you that you have a magical way with words?” Grantaire asked, and a little of the bright warmth of the sun he was always comparing Enjolras to finally slipped into his voice.

“I believe you have on several occasions,” Enjolras said in a dry tone despite the way a smile fought to cross his face the second Grantaire sounded a little better.

“Well you certainly keep proving my point,” Grantaire replied, more clattering noises filling his end of the line as Enjolras assumed he moved around the apartment to get ready.

“It is one point of yours I don’t mind proving.”

Grantaire hummed at that, though whatever mood still clung to Grantaire’s form dragged the notes down.

“There’s not that many customers yet,” Enjolras told him, whether to distract Grantaire or distract himself, he wasn’t sure. “The ones here are staying at their tables and it looks like it’s going to storm, so you don’t need to pan–”

“Enjolras.” Everything in Enjolras went still, braced for the storm of shattering honesty and quiet belief that one word held. “Thank you.”

“You’d do the same for any of us,” Enjolras replied, because it was the truth, it had always been the truth, and they all agreed the Incident proved Enjolras needed to get better at coherently expressing emotional truths.

“I don’t think it would ever happen to you guys in the first place,” Grantaire said, and Enjolras could picture the wry smile that went along with the bitterness flooding his voice.

“I’m pretty sure you heard me yelling at Courf every day in third year for constantly sleeping through our shared morning class,” Enjolras told him, refusing to bow beneath the weight of Grantaire’s self-loathing. “Joly refused to go to one of his required classes for two weeks because he thought one of his classmates had pneumonia and he didn’t want to catch it. Marius has mixed up at least two classes every single year of university. During exam season last year, I survived on caffeine and power bars for more than forty-eight hours.”

“Combeferre had to lock you in your room without your laptop or notes to get you to sleep,” Grantaire remembered. He laughed a little, and only the edges of the noise were burnt by something less than joy. “Do you have a colour-coded chart for this somewhere? A tally you and Courf keep?”

“Courf has to make money somehow.”

Another note of laughter spilled from Grantaire’s lips at that, and Enjolras let himself close his eyes to reality and simply treasure the happy sound for a brief moment.

“I’ll have to remember to bother him about it after the shift.”

“Yeah, speaking of, you should probably take a shower and come down.”

“Right. Thanks again, Enjolras.”

“Just don’t make a big habit of it,” Enjolras said, ears burning at the sincerity. “I can’t spend all my minutes on you, as much as I’d like to.”  

***

“Ma’am, I can’t do anything about this,” Enjolras tried saying for the hundredth time in ten minutes. “If it says it’s expired, then it’s expired. I can’t give you a refund.”

The old lady across the counter glowered at him, a bundle of coupons clenched in her wrinkled hand. A small boy stood beside her, looking torn between boredom and embarrassment. Enjolras wouldn’t blame him for the lack of comfort if he spent all day with the lady who took pleasure in yelling at service employees and smelled like cow manure underneath her tie-dyed sweater.

“I’ve been saving all of these for a very special occasion and I intend to use them,” she just said. The little boy fiddled with one of the plastic straws.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Enjolras told her, half-amazed that a civil note still stayed hooked into his tone. “But if the coupons are expired, the coupons are expired.”

“I didn’t even get them that long ago!”

“It says on them that they expired six months ago.”

Enjolras didn’t even bother trying to point out the tiny printed date to her, as after the third time he showed her, she just wrapped her first around them and refused to loosen her grip.

“I want to speak with your manager,” she said loudly, as if that wasn’t the trump card that every single angry customer played whenever their desires were being thwarted.

He thought he heard Grantaire snicker behind him, and spared the man a glance where he was making drinks for a rowdy group of teenagers. He gave Enjolras a sympathetic look when he caught sight of the old woman still standing there but didn’t move to offer any actual assistance. But Enjolras was just grateful that he showed up relatively on time that day, grateful that all the times in the past week he had needed to call Grantaire to remind him of work, the art student had shown up despite his slow start.

“Well?” the old lady snapped at Enjolras.

“He’s already left for the day,” Enjolras told her.

They were supposed to be closing in five minutes and even the workaholic that was Javert rarely stayed past nine at night. Grantaire was giving the drinks to the teenagers in cardboard cups because they needed to leave once they got them.

They needed to close soon.

Enjolras couldn’t afford to miss the last bus that night.

The old lady and the boy still stood there.

“Well call him.”

“It’s almost elven at night,” Enjolras replied without stopping to consider his words or use his customer voice. “He’s not going to pick up and frankly, this is not an emergency that he should pick up for.”

The old lady didn’t even blink at that. Even all of Enjolras’ revolutionary fire and righteous fury was no match for an old lady who felt she had been wronged by the service industry.

“Fine,” the old lady said with enough ice in her voice to freeze over the coffee in Grantaire’s hand. “Then you tell him he’s lost a very valuable customer who is absolutely _appalled_ at the horrendous service here and will never be bringing herself or any of her relations back.”

“I’ll be sure to pass on the message.”

The lady huffed and then stomped off, but she still didn’t _leave_ the store. Grantaire wandered over to Enjolras’ side as he watched the old lady rummage through her purse and her chunky phone even when Enjolras shouted that they were closing up for the night.

“She’s not leaving,” Enjolras told him even though they could both still see her rooted to the floor of their shop.

“Want me to offer her one of my drinks?” Grantaire asked with a sweet smile. “She might not be offended enough yet to leave.”

Enjolras snorted, but shook his head.

“Let’s just start cleaning up.”

“Try not to smite her with your glare,” Grantaire replied before grabbing the dish bucket and started on getting all the dishes left on the shop’s tables.

By the time they finished cleaning, the old lady still stood there, the little boy now absorbed by the screen of his DS. Enjolras went over and spent another ten minutes arguing with her until finally threatening to call the police on her if she didn’t leave. She left with another huff about how she had never been more offended in her life, but Enjolras couldn’t feel any triumph when he looked at the time on his watch.  

“Another victory for the–what’s wrong, Enjolras?”

Enjolras scrubbed at his tired face before looking up at Grantaire’s concerned voice. He shouldn’t have said anything, just waved away the questions knowing that for all his flippant joviality, Grantaire had his own problems to deal with outside of the small insular bubble of their work shifts.

“Missed my last bus,” Enjolras replied, already contemplating the long walk home and all the emails he would need to craft to his professor to explain his late essay.

“Shit. Can’t Combeferre give you a ride? Or can you call a cab?”

“He’s out of town tonight. And I used any potential cab money bailing Bahorel out last week.”

Enjolras started walking as they talked, both of them gathering up their backpacks from where they stored them in the kitchen during their shifts. Grantaire waited patiently when Enjolras locked up the shop and continued talking.

“The walk wouldn’t be a problem except I have an essay due at eight tomorrow that I’m not done yet, and spending two hours walking home will definitely make it late.”

“Do you have your laptop with you?”

“Yeah, I was gonna get started on the bus.”

“You could just come back to my place.”

Enjolras looked over sharply at the offer. In the dim light cast only by a streetlight five feet away, Enjolras could only make out half of Grantaire’s expression. With the dark curls backlit by the light and a nervous sincerity staining his cheeks pink, there was something almost ethereal about this fellow college student that made Enjolras’ heart skip for just a second. Grantaire blinked and the moment passed, blush still spread between the dried flakes of paint stuck to Grantaire’s skin.

“Obviously you don’t have to–I was just thinking if you had your laptop and you wanted to save as much time as possible–”

Grantaire gave him a helpless shrug. “Well my place is only a five minute walk. You can stay the night, work on it, and hand it in tomorrow.”

“Well,” Enjolras said, unable to get words out for a moment with his heart suddenly reminding him that yes, he was in fact human, and just as capable of losing his speech around someone he liked as much as the next person. “If you’re okay with that, I would really appreciate it.”

“Sure,” Grantaire said, a bright smile more beautiful than any otherworldly perfection spreading across his face. “Just don’t freak out if you end up with some paint on you in the morning. Even if you’re not working with it, it _spreads._ ”

“What, like a zombie virus?”

“You’ve been watching too much Walking Dead with Courf again. I approve.”

Enjolras laughed, and the sound trailed behind them all the way to Grantaire’s apartment, gifting the night and all its occupants with an unshakeable feeling of invulnerability.

***

The thing about Grantaire was that he possessed a kindness equivalent to the amount of cruelty he always proclaimed the world to hold in its bleeding hands. It had taken Enjolras awhile to notice this side of Grantaire, distracted by the loudness, the drunkenness, the obnoxious joking, and all the other things Grantaire threw in the world’s face to keep it from digging at what lay beneath his skull. The acts of compassion and loving friendship were always smaller and never meant to draw attention, but once Enjolras saw them, he couldn’t stop.

It was Grantaire drawing on Jehan’s arms when the poet needed a pressure point to keep him tied to the present world.

It was Grantaire carefully putting brightly coloured butterfly bandages on all of Bousset’s latest unlucky scrapes while reminding him of all the other ridiculous accidents the Amis had been in.

It was Grantaire talking Joly through any and all of his panicked moments, never once rolling his eyes or walking away.

It was Grantaire letting Eponine and Gavroche crash on his couch without a single question asked, buying an extra donut for her when she showed up to their meetings with an even sharper tongue than usual.

And it was Grantaire offering Enjolras puns and outrageous stories whenever Enjolras was close to murdering a belligerent customer. It was Grantaire returning Enjolras’ reminders about work with reminders about Enjolras’ essays and meetings. It was Grantaire letting Enjolras come over more and more after their work shifts and not commenting when Enjolras nodded off right on the artist’s couch.

“So have you talked about the misunderstanding yet?” Combeferre asked six weeks after Enjolras and Grantaire started working together.

Enjolras was on a ten minute break, once again plastered to the wall in the back alley of the coffee shop. He was pretty sure he had memorized all of the different spots bricks would bite into his back and shoulders, and where to stand to minimize discomfort. Even the smell was no longer as noticeable.

“No,” Enjolras said. “There hasn’t really been an opportunity.”

“I would have half-bought that three weeks ago,” Combeferre told him, the faint sound of the television playing in the background, “But now that you keep going over to his house–”

“And he’s started coming to our place on weekends,” Courfeyrac cut in.

“You no longer have any excuses,” Combeferre finished, though his tone of voice only ever stayed reasonable, making Enjolras feel like a petulant child when he tried to argue back.

“I just haven’t thought of a good way to bring it up yet,” Enjolras said. “And aren’t you supposed to be working on a paper, Courf?”

“You know I find friend drama much more interesting than world economics,” Courfeyrac replied, volume of his voice constantly changing as he wandered around the apartment.

“Enjolras, part of the reason that whole afternoon happened is because you and Grantaire don’t communicate enough,” Combeferre said, steering the conversation back on topic. “Not directly, at least. Not honestly.”

“We’re talking more now,” Enjolras argued, even though he knew his friend to be correct. Discussions about feelings was the one area in which Enjolras didn’t possess a mastery of words, and Grantaire avoided it with a skill that both frustrated and impressed Enjolras. “Learning more.”

He still didn’t think he knew as much as someone like Eponine or Joly, but after every shift he was able to add a tiny piece of information to the growing list of small things he knew about Grantaire. Like the way he tugged the beanie on his head lower when he was uncomfortable. Or the way paint burrowed out a cozy home beneath his fingernails even when he had spent the last three days working on his computer tablet.

Enjolras now knew the exact curve to Grantaire’s lips and scrunching of his eyes before he told a pun. The whole body slump he did when he was tired or hung-over, the way he blinked blearily at Enjolras through his dissociation. The difference between listless humming born out of habit and the energetic one that had his fingers tapping along to the music. The way he always messed up the foam but still offered a charming smile to the customer.

“He _is_ calling him Apollo less at meetings,” Courfeyrac offered as if taking pity on Enjolras. “I know you said he stopped at work, but it must be going well if he’s not even doing it as much at the meetings. He absolutely refused to call Enjolras by his name after the Incident.”

“He’s less cautious around me now,” Enjolras added.

That was yet another thing he knew now, the hunch to Grantaire’s shoulders, the precise angle of his body twisted away from Enjolras, and the tense lines cracking out from his eyes whenever he was wary of something Enjolras either was saying or was about to say. Enjolras realized the other day such a state had been constant when they first met, and he only recognized it now because for months leading up to the Incident it _wasn’t there_. Not often at least.

“I never wanted him to be in the first place,” Enjolras continued, “But at least now we’re getting over it.”

“I know you didn’t,” Combeferre said softly because they already had a conversation about Grantaire’s inclination to believe he would inevitably be hurt by anyone he cared about. “And that’s good. Which is why I’m saying now is the time for you two to actually talk about it.”

“You won’t get a date if you don’t ask,” Courfeyrac sung, and Enjolras glared at the opposite wall even though his own mind had been saying those exact words for the past few weeks every night before Enjolras slipped into sleep.

“I am aware, thank you, Courf.”

“Talk about what happened first,” Combeferre said firmly. “ _Then_ ask him on a date.”

“And then tell us all about it,” Courfeyrac said, and Enjolras rolled his eyes before hanging up.  

The shop was packed when Enjolras returned inside, Grantaire flashing him a relieved smile when he instantly started to work on the three different drink orders Grantaire rambled off at him. It was an impatient crowd that night, most customers simply grabbing their drinks without so much as a muttered _thanks_ before diving for a free chair.

With his back turned as he focused on making a seasonal latte, Enjolras didn’t see the drunk man when he entered the store. He heard the belligerence in his tone, though, the second he spoke to Grantaire at the cash, and the stale smell of cigarettes and alcohol slammed into Enjolras when he turned slightly.

“–really use some order in this zoo,” the man was saying, and Enjolras’ grip around the cup in his hand tightened when the man loomed into Grantaire’s personal space. Grantaire simply offered the man his politest customer smile, despite the way his hands had been shaking their entire shift.

“Sorry about the wait, sir,” Grantaire said. “What can I get you?”

“Three strawberry smoothies for me and my runts,” the man said, gesturing to the skinny children at his side.

“I’m sorry, sir, but our smoothie machine is broken today,” Grantaire reeled out the reply both employees had been saying constantly their entire shift.

“You’re kidding.”

Enjolras set the drink down slightly at the way anger lifted the man’s voice higher and intensified the smell of booze hanging off his limbs. Grantaire’s smile flickered and then stretched apologetically across his face, but the expression was more fragile than seconds ago.

“I’m really sorry, sir, we–”

“The hell kind of business you running here?” the man snarled. “You so damn incompetent you can’t even fix us up a couple smoothies?”

Grantaire opened his mouth to reply despite the frozen look to his eyes and Enjolras reached the counter, but the man was already turning away with a glare.

“I want a smoothie,” the little girl whined as the man pushed her and the boy along by their shoulders.   

“So do I, but that’s too much work for the pathetic group of lazy teenagers running this place.”

The man made no attempt to lower his voice as he moved toward the door, a few other customers looking over at him but making no attempt to engage with him. “Bunch of drop-outs, can’t even make it through college–”

“Asshole,” Enjolras muttered into the lull of customers once the man finally left the shop. He stepped up shoulder to shoulder with Grantaire while everyone inside the shop slowly returned to their business. “They probably didn’t have the eighty dollar scotch he wanted and his wife made him take out the kids for an hour while she got a pedicure.”

Enjolras slid a look to his side when Grantaire stayed silent. Grantaire stared out the window a few seconds longer, the tremors from before a merciless crumbling of his whole body.

“Well,” Grantaire said when he finally turned to meet Enjolras, bitter laughter barely suppressed by his shaky voice, “he wasn’t wrong about me.”

The thing about Grantaire was that his disguised disavowal of any need for the good opinions and love of others was incomplete, especially when placed under Enjolras’ single-minded scrutiny.

“Not literally, of course,” Grantaire continued when Enjolras opened his mouth. He offered Enjolras his patented self-deprecating smile. “I’m still in college, and technically not a teenager. But I’m sure I’m just one assignment away from being a drop-out, and even if I somehow manage the miraculous accomplishment of scraping by and getting a diploma, I’m still pretty pathetic and still pretty lazy, and I’ll end up working here forever.”

“That’s bullshit,” Enjolras snapped, and Grantaire shrugged. He couldn’t hide the hunch to his shoulders.

“That’s what everyone says. You should have heard all the details my mom came up with this morning. And you’ve certainly said it much more eloquently before.”

“I was wrong,” Enjolras said, and he didn’t know if it was the speed of his reply or the sheer force of his harsh voice that caused Grantaire to jerk up in surprise.

He didn’t look away when Enjolras met his gaze directly, Enjolras wishing not for the first time that his gaze alone was enough to keep Grantaire in place and make him _listen_. “I was wrong to say it when I did, and I was wrong not to apologize for it a hundred times over. You decry this world and yourself and your talents, and yet every single morning you get up and you go to school and you draw and you work and you meet with our friends and you love them and laugh with them and you _keep going_. You have a tenacity that I can only dream at, an artistic ability that has blown the minds of every single person we know, and an intelligence that has, on more than one occasion, made me speechless.” 

Grantaire was gaping and Enjolras finally took a breath even as he kept his voice to a conversational level so no customers would start staring. “So don’t you dare ever let anyone tell you that you are anything less than exceptional. Not yourself or some stuck up customer.”

“Careful, Enjolras,” Grantaire said, voice a raw whisper, as if Enjolras’ words had scraped away everything but a delicate vulnerability that could only be spoken of in the softest of breaths. “You almost make me believe you.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in anything,” Enjolras replied, lowering his voice to match Grantaire’s at the same time he tilted his body to mirror Grantaire’s.

“I believe in you,” Grantaire said, and the bare honesty left no air for either of them in the few inches of space that separated them.

“Yo, I need a fucking refill over here!”

The bored customer’s voice sent both of them jerking away from each other, eyes wide and faces flushed.

“One moment,” Enjolras called, and hurried to the customer’s side while trying to ignore just how close he had been to kissing Grantaire, conversation about the Incident be damned.  

***

The Incident went like this:

Picture Enjolras at center stage, his mind a little fuzzy from exhaustion, frowning down at a news pamphlet at one of the wooden tables of the Musain, but feeling content. Friends in the corners, some of them reading on their laptops, some of them laughing, some of them sleeping like Feuilly with his arms as a pillow and the hard bench a feather bed.

Enter Grantaire stage right, a bundle of nervous energy compressed into an asymmetrical human form, beanie pulled down as low as it could go, two coffees clenched in shaking hands.

For a single second the scene became a tableau of anticipation, of nerves, of possibility, of promise. Then the tape hiccupped, jumped a little, and resumed pace. Grantaire watched Enjolras. The Amis watched Grantaire watch Enjolras. Enjolras watched the black words on the paper.

Grantaire caught Joly’s gaze for a moment, and the med student gave him a reassuring thumbs up. He moved toward Enjolras, buoyed along by all of the Amis’ promise in a happy ending and his own growing sense of inevitability.

Enjolras didn’t look up when Grantaire stopped in front of him, teetering on the edge of his gravitational pull just like always.

The moment he looked up and met Grantaire’s eyes, it was game over. Or perhaps it had been game over since Grantaire walked through the door. Perhaps the end had already been decided when he was in line only half an hour ago buying coffees despite the early hours of the afternoon because he decided he couldn’t do this empty-handed. More likely, the end game fell into place the day before when the Amis finally convinced Grantaire to actually do something about his affections for Enjolras, a date or a hang-out, anything would be good for them. Courfeyrac even showed Grantaire a text from Enjolras displaying irrevocable evidence of Enjolras’ own affections for Grantaire.

Most likely, it was not in fact game over until the last syllable of the conversation left Enjolras’ mouth. Most likely, there was no real end game and the ending could have been changed several times throughout the conversation if not for Grantaire’s belief that it would always end in Enjolras’ scorn, and Enjolras’ turn to stubborn self-righteousness when confused.

But the start of the game went like this:

Grantaire lost his nerve when optimistic eyes met cynical ones, and he could only shove one of the coffee cups at Enjolras’ chest.

(In the corners, the Amis were already groaning into their hands).

Enjolras took the coffee cup more so it wouldn’t spill over everything, giving the steadily reddening Grantaire a bewildered look.

“What’s this for?” Enjolras asked because he could never just say _thank you_ when it came to Grantaire, he always needed to ask, to decipher, to dig deep for the hidden meaning.

Grantaire believed this to be because of Enjolras’ utter (and his opinion, deserved) lack of faith in his ability to do anything right or sincere, even though their growing friendship had steadily forced him to believe Enjolras did hold a degree of affection for him.  

He would have been correct in the first year, even second year, but now the reasons for Enjolras’ constant over-analysis stemmed from his crush on Grantaire.

“I mean,” Enjolras continued, remembering his best friends’ lecture earlier about gratitude and feeling Courfeyrac’s glare on his shoulder blades,” Thank you but–”

More likely, the end game occurred because Enjolras could not leave well enough alone. He was always adding a _but_ to the end of his sentence, especially when it came to Grantaire. Not out of doubt or derision (not now at least), but for the desire to know _more_ , to keep the conversation going, to argue back, to _understand_.

Unfortunately for Enjolras, Grantaire didn’t think there was much about him that was worth understanding or knowing, even now that he was doing better with his depression and anxiety and whole other bundle of mental health issues that were constantly making every health professional he knew throw up their hands in despair. Therefore, the word _but_ was not an invitation to continue the conversation and understand, but an uncaring dismissal of him.

“Why me?” Enjolras asked. “Feuilly and Bahorel clearly need this more than me today.”

(In the corners, the Amis were now banging their heads on the tables).

“It’s a truce,” Grantaire blurted, instead of the truth.

Courfeyrac looked ready to start screaming at them. Combeferre was already going through a hundred different ways to explain to Enjolras what had just happened. Joly was readying the med kit. Eponine was giving Grantaire a look of exasperation mixed with sympathy that only she could pull off, knowing full well the way some secrets were kept for so long that giving them away felt akin to throwing oneself off a cliff to a sea full of sharks, or sawing off a limb with nothing but a rusty plastic fork.

“What are you talking about?” Enjolras asked, a frown appearing on his face. Bahorel was making frantic slicing motions at his throat but Enjolras pushed on. “Why would we need a truce?”

In Enjolras’ not so humble opinion, the two were getting along just fine. The best in the four years of arguing and misunderstanding and pining.

Grantaire just stared at him, and the shaking spread from his hands to the rest of his too hot skin. He wanted out, he wanted Enjolras to stop looking at him expectantly, he wanted this day to have never happened.

He wanted to kill all of the Amis and drown himself in booze, but he wasn’t too picky on the exact order of those two things.

“A truce for friendship,” Grantaire finally said, but the frown on Enjolras’ face didn’t fade. It grew deeper instead.

“Why would I need that?” Enjolras asked.

Most likely, game over occurred because every single human since humans first stumbled into their own mess had the knack for misunderstanding. Missing the clues, missing the code, missing the motives, missing one piece of the puzzle, missing a single word–it didn’t matter how much of a people person someone was, there would always come a time when they misunderstood and sent off a nuke instead of sending flowers.

So Enjolras asked _why do we need a truce, why are you mad at me, why don’t you see how much I like you_ , and Grantaire heard _why would I need friendship with someone as horrible as you._

(In the corners, the Amis were now planning the elaborate murders of both of their friends).

“Wow, okay never mind,” Grantaire snapped, an expert in sharpening his hurt into jagged points no one would try to touch. “I guess I’ll just leave you and your righteous quest alone then.”

He slammed the coffee cup onto the table by Enjolras papers. Liquid sloshed inside just like the misery now swirling through Grantaire’s veins. “You know, you didn’t have to be such an ass about it.”

“What are you talking about?” Enjolras shouted. He couldn’t keep quiet with the confusion lighting up every part of him like there was a sun struggling to break through his skin and burn away all the misdirections and half-truths that always kept the two at arm’s length. “Why do you always have to be so frustratingly nonsensical? Why can’t you just make _sense_?”

(In the corners, the Amis were now changing their minds and deciding to kill Enjolras first).

“Don’t worry, Apollo,” Grantaire replied, tone vicious with the careful dehumanization of Enjolras, “I won’t bother confusing you again.”

He stormed out and Enjolras was still yelling after him and the Amis were now divvying up damage control and that was the Incident.

***

Another week passed with Grantaire and Enjolras working together. Another week of obnoxious customers, inside jokes, after work hang-outs, and nosy calls from both of Enjolras’ roommates. Despite a lack of direct conversation about the Incident, things with Grantaire were steadily improving to the point where Courfeyrac said all the smiling from Enjolras was starting to scare him.

That didn’t mean that all stress and exhaustion was gone from Enjolras’ life, however. There were still classes and assignments and midterms and meetings and rallies and fundraising events and work. Sometimes it seemed like half the people Enjolras knew were getting by purely on any caffeinated drink they could snag and pure determination.

This wasn’t exactly conductive for surviving a work shift with one’s composed, customer service face intact though.

Halfway through the work shift that Wednesday found Enjolras on cash and Grantaire cursing over a cappuccino a few feet away.

A bored looking man and anxious woman stepped up to the counter, the woman craning her head to peer at the display of goods while Enjolras greeted them.

“Do you guys have any gift packages or something?” the woman asked Enjolras while the man at her side stuffed his hands into his pockets. “It’s my brother’s birthday soon.”

“Well we have gift cards,” Enjolras said, and immediately wished he possessed a different answer when a smug sneer spread across the man’s face.

“Fucking told you,” the man said to the woman, and then turned to Enjolras with a conspiratorial roll of his eyes. “Her brother is a fucking faggot so he wanted something to do with these girly drinks and shit. I told her all she’d be able to get the prick was a gift card.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Enjolras saw Grantaire nearly knock the drink right over as he stiffened. A girl in a rosy sundress waiting in line gaped at the man. The woman elbowed the man and scowled when he just laughed at her.

Enjolras simply stared for a single second as all his exhaustion melted into a righteous fury that reared its head with a roar without any thought for the location or social consequences surrounding Enjolras.

“Of course, sir,” Enjolras replied, letting a too-bright smile that negated any concept of mercy spread across his face, “I, the faggot, am here to help you.”

The girl in the sundress covered her mouth with her hands. The woman’s mouth fell open. The man’s expression shifted, tested out at least three different emotions, and then settled with unease.

“Uh okay,” the man said, “can we get him instead?”

He pointed toward Grantaire who had now fully turned toward the scene. With a quick glance toward Enjolras, he stepped forward and offered the man a similar, biting smile.

“I, also a faggot, would be happy to help you,” Grantaire said cheerily, and the girl waiting in line burst into laughter.

“Enjolras! Grantaire!”

Both of them spun at the angry shout from Javert, twisting to see him standing just in the doorway of his office with a scowl on his face and hands planted on his hips.

The single baby in the coffee shop chose that moment to vomit all over the floor.

Fifteen minutes later found both Enjolras and Grantaire on their hands and knees, scrubbing vomit off the floor with their hands at Javert’s insistence for “showing such a blatant disregard for a customer.” Given that the only thing Javert had given the man was a gift card and this was their only punishment, Enjolras figured Javert didn’t completely disagree with putting that customer in his place, merely their chosen method.

“Thanks for backing me up,” Enjolras said after a few minutes of silence where both of them desperately tried to ignore the smell rising up from the moldy coloured puddle. Grantaire glanced up at him and offered him a slight smile after a second’s pause.

“Anytime,” Grantaire replied with a sincerity that spoke of the years Grantaire had been doing exactly that. Affection locked Enjolras’ thoughts in a chokehold before Grantaire was pushing onward with a nonchalant tone. “And how I could I resist with that beautiful response of yours? I wish I had been filming the whole thing. Everyone else would love it.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if someone in the shop was,” Enjolras replied, and poured some more soapy water on the portion of floor he worked on.

“Ah yes, I can see all the Youtube hits now.”   

Grantaire grinned at the thought and Enjolras’ breath caught in his throat as his heart vanished for a beat before slamming against his too tight chest with triple the force. Once more, that simple expression on Grantaire pushed away all the gross smells and grating whining of the real world to carve out a small pocket where Enjolras could simply _be_.

Once more, that smile made Enjolras long to confess all of his feelings so Grantaire would officially be his.

A small part of him still called for resistance, called for the marble composure everyone claimed he possessed, called for him to simply focus on work and the endless desire to change the world for the better.

A small part of him still called for him to fight.

For once in his life, Enjolras stopped fighting

“Go out with me,” Enjolras blurted, and the whole world suspended itself in shock for a single moment at Enjolras’ departure from the pre-planned script.

“What?” the question was more air than an actual word, and Enjolras felt his own body slow with panic at the utter disbelief twisting Grantaire’s face.

“Shit, sorry, that wasn’t–we were supposed to talk about the Incident first and I–” He took a deep breath and tried to quell the shrieking in his mind and realization that asking someone out on a date while they cleaned up _vomit_ was the furthest thing from romantic. Courfeyrac would have a field day with this.

“Also I just realized that came out as a demand,” Enjolras continued. “When it should have been a question. And I know we still need to talk about what happened so–”

“Stop,” Grantaire said, sounding like he was choking on all of Enjolras’ words. “Please just–let me think. Let me think for a minute.”

Enjolras nodded and went back to cleaning up the mess in silence. Impatience had been one of the many things that created the Incident and so Enjolras waited for Grantaire to breathe and think and breathe again. He waited as the customers chatted around him and Javert worked at the cash register. He waited as the night deepened outside and they reached the end of the puddle of vomit. He waited as words of clarification and reassurance tumbled and spun in his mind like a pinwheel.

“Explain,” Grantaire finally said, desperately, hesitantly.

“I like you,” Enjolras replied. “And I want to go out with you. I’m sorry about the Incident–when you tried to give me those coffees in the Musain and you said they were for a truce and I yelled at you. I didn’t think we needed a truce because I already really liked you and I thought we were getting along fine. And now, well, I _really_ like you and I want to go out. With you. If that’s what you want.”

Grantaire stared and stared with his hands twisting and twisting in the hem of his shirt. The scrub brush lay abandoned at his side as water soaked the knees of his jeans.

“So you call it the Incident too?” he asked, and Enjolras allowed the diversion with a small smile.

“It was Courf’s idea. He said everyone else was doing the same. Ferre kept saying we were being dramatic and just called it a misunderstanding.”

“That sounds like Combeferre,” Grantaire said, hands pausing in their twisting only so Grantaire could reach up and pull his beanie lower with one hand. “I wasn’t–I didn’t actually mean that. What I said about a friendship truce or whatever. That wasn’t what I meant to say.”

“No?”

Grantaire’s head jerked in a nod.

“I actually wanted–I was going to say–well, I was going to ask what you asked. Just now. About the dating thing.”

“You were?” Enjolras said as Grantaire’s whole face grew red.

“Yeah but well, you know me. Cowardly as always.”

“I don’t think you’re a coward.”

Enjolras resisted the urge to reach across the space between them and hold Grantaire when he finally met Enjolras’ gaze and offered a wavering smile.

“I’m going to have to disagree with you then.”

“You disagree with me about a lot of things,” Enjolras reminded him. “I’m used to it by now.”

Grantaire’s smile widened an inch, though it looked as easy to break as a brittle twig. “That doesn’t mean your opinions are invalid or I had any right to yell at you for them so I’m sorry for that too.”

“You haven’t actually been all that yell-y recently,” Grantaire said, something akin to understanding dawning in his eyes and stilling his hands.

“I’ve been trying.” Enjolras rocked back on his heels a little. “Does this mean you’ll go on a date with me?”

“Are you sure?” Grantaire asked, smile fading. “I’m a bit of a mess.”

Enjolras gestured to the water all around them and the bucket filled with the baby’s upchuck.

“Life’s a bit of a mess.”

Grantaire laughed at that, eyes bright in a way that simultaneously made Enjolras grin and broke his heart.

“I might not believe this really happened tomorrow,” Grantaire warned him, but four years of knowing Grantaire and a year of being in love with him had prepared Enjolras for that.

“I’ll remind you,” Enjolras promised, “every day if I have to. I’ll remind you tonight if you wanted to go back to your house after our shift.”

“I _would_ really like a shower right now,” Grantaire said, and wrinkled his nose at the buckets.

“And I would really like to kiss you, but I don’t really want our first kiss to taste like vomit,” Enjolras replied, bold with the promise of a happy ending.

“You’re such a romantic,” Grantaire said with a laugh.

They fell quiet after that and Grantaire still seemed caught in the sticky strands of disbelief when their shift ended. But he smiled back when Enjolras offered him one, and he eagerly accepted Enjolras’ hand to hold after they were finally done for the evening and walked home together beneath a canopy of stars.  

 


End file.
